


Of Worms and Worries

by PrinceCake



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Fluff, It has zero affect on the plot at all but just know that hes trans, M/M, Martin has trauma, Mutual Pining, On account of im trans and i say so, Pining, Spoilers for episode 22, Trans Martin Blackwood, martin needs hugs, please give him a break
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceCake/pseuds/PrinceCake
Summary: Martin is living in the Archives. His panic-inducing fear of Prentiss and those tiny silver worms is keeping him up at night, running him ragged, and a certain Archivist takes notice.Aka Martin has trauma, and Jon tries his best to take care of him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic is purely me deciding that Martin needs more love and that it should come from Jon, and nobody can stop me! This is going to be a multi-chapter project, so hopefully I'll be updating at least weekly till it's done.
> 
> Also I feel like the sheer trauma of Jane Prentiss upon Martin is understated and I?? Can and will write about it  
> If there are any room layouts that are whack please let me know, but I can't find any like,, actual Maps of the Institute and I'm not sure that there even is an official layout?? Does it matter? Probably not

Martin was in his home. All the cracks in the doors were sealed, all the windows shut, covered in writhing worms. He shuddered. How many days had it been? Had anyone at the Archives noticed he was gone? Did anyone even care that he was gone? Martin tried not to think about it. They must have noticed he was gone. Why wasn't anyone coming for him?

 _"They don't care."_ The horrifying sound of Jane Prentiss hissed over Martin's shoulder. Before he had time to scream, he felt a cold, tight grip on his shoulder from a hand that shouldn't have been moving the way it was. Worms crawled off it and over his skin, and even as he shoved himself away and scrambled desperately, Martin could feel them trying to burrow into him. _How did she get in?_ He stood up and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Prentiss was laughing, a bone chilling sound that couldn't possibly be coming from a throat filled with holes and worms. Martin stared into the mirror, trying to spot the burrowing maggots, but there was nothing at all. He couldn't feel them any more, and glancing down at his arm where he _knew_ he'd felt one go in, his skin was smooth and untouched.

Martin looked back in the mirror. Jane Prentiss smiled out at him instead of his own reflection. Martin screamed, and worms poured out from his open mouth.

Martin sat bolt upright in his bed, still screaming. His heart was pounding, and as his yell was swallowed by the sealed room, he realized it was just a dream. Or, a nightmare, but still. He looked himself over briefly to quell the fear that he was, somehow, covered in worms despite being awake and in a room they couldn't possibly be in. Once he was calmed down enough to stop hyperventilating, he curled into a ball and tried to go back to sleep. It was just another nightmare, he told himself. Just think about something nice and go back to sleep.

He didn't succeed.

Martin was still adjusting to living in the Archives. It was, of course, completely necessary - Jane Prentiss not only knew where he lived, but had trapped him there for almost two weeks. He couldn't exactly hire an exterminator and then pop back into his flat easy-peasy. If everything was that simple then the Magnus Institute wouldn't really need to exist, would it?

The Archives had a safely sealed room, and it was... well, it was something. Martin wasn't used to leaving the room to see Jon there, sitting at his desk, his forehead scrunched in frustration. He wasn't used to trying to make breakfast in the break room, and he wasn't used to the thick, heavy panic that the idea of going outside to get food brought him. Martin also wasn't used to having to worry about his coworkers potentially seeing him in his pyjamas, which was causing him a lot more stress than it probably should have, considering the literal threat of death outside the Institute walls. The chances of Tim or Sasha or Jon needing something from 'his' room in the early morning or late at night was incredibly unlikely, and the chances of being bored into and killed by tiny silver maggots was horribly _more_ likely.

Except for Jon, actually. He'd been coming in earlier and earlier once Martin had turned back up, which he only knew because his nightmares kept him from getting a good night's sleep. Jon hadn't come into the sealed room for anything while Martin was asleep yet (that he knew of), but it wouldn't be out of character for him at this point. Jon was becoming increasingly focused and frustrated, digging for statements or trying to hunt down newspaper clippings seemingly at random. Martin wouldn't put it past his boss to start hunting for things at three in the morning, and the thought of Jon seeing him in his boxer briefs and pyjama shirt was taking up way too much of Martin's time.

Honestly, thinking of Jon in general was taking up too much of Martin's time. If he wasn't focused on following up statements or trying not to panic about Jane Prentiss, he was thinking about his boss. Specifically, about how weird he felt around him. Stammering, heart pounding, hands shaking - any time he interacted with Jon, it all hit Martin in a rush. Quite frankly, it was a little bit alarming. He liked to think he was decently level-headed, he did solid work, and he could maintain calm in a crisis. He'd stayed as calm as he could while under horse arrest from a writhing mass of worms controlled by a nightmare of a woman, after all! But as soon as Jon was around, Martin felt... he felt something.

He didn't quite want to dig further into what that something was. It was easier to brush it off as nerves from his recent trauma and try to ignore it. Martin had enough on his plate as it was. He just hoped that Jon was too focused on his work to notice, because Tim had already started giving him wiggly eyebrows every time Martin spoke to Jon. He wasnt sure what that was supposed to mean, but it probably wasn't good, knowing Tim.

Martin's tasks for the day consisted of trying to follow up a few statements (which yielded nothing but an awkward conversation with someones grandma), talking himself out of a panic attack after seeing a silver gum wrapper in the trash bin, ordering more CO2 canisters, calling after one more statement, and then busying himself with making tea. His workload hadn't been quite as heavy lately, which he assumed was on purpose, but it left him far too much time for panic and trying not to think about his boss or his possible demise via worms or Tim's eyebrows. So, Martin made tea. Usually for himself, sometimes for Sasha and Tim, and today for Jon. That clashed rather hard with not thinking about Jon, but there was only so much tea in a day Martin could drink by himself, and making tea was calming. Plus, Tim didn't deserve any tea today after outright _winking_ at Martin for no apparent reason and making him fumble with his pen.

Martin left his desk to start the smooth, easy process of making tea. Heat the kettle on the tiny hot plate in the breakroom, get out the teabag (Earl Grey), get out the mug (Martin thought Jon liked the white one with cats on it best). Wait for the whistle of the kettle, pour water, set teabag to steep. Two and a half minutes later, take the teabag out, one sugar, a touch of cream. Then just... take it to Jon's office.

Martin knocked on the door (after giving Tim a look for raising an eyebrow at him) and gently opened it a moment after. "Tea, Jon?"

His boss looked up from the file currently open on his desk. His shirt that day was a royal purple, with a light pink tie. Martin always liked Jon's ties. He couldn't quite pull them off very well, himself, but Jon always looked smart in them. "Oh, hello, Martin." Jon noticed the mug in in Martin's hands. "Set it on the desk, please."

As he went to set the tea down, Martin saw the file was on Jane Prentiss. He wrinkled his nose, his most recent nightmare trying to push back into his brain. His hands went a bit shaky as the feeling of worms in his mouth came back, and the tea came precariously close to spilling. God, he was tired.

"You alright, Martin?" Jon asked, setting a hand on the mug to gently to steady it. His fingers settled over Martins for a brief moment.

"Oh- uh, yeah, I'm - tired." Martin felt his heart stutter through a few beats as he pulled his shaking hands away, the worm feeling not quite as strong now. Jon gave him a look that he couldn't decipher, then nodded. Martin made his way out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. The tea was delivered, and he supposed it was time to go back to his own little desk and try to get more work done. Even though his assigned work was clearly being lessened for the time being, Martin needed to keep himself busy. He didn't want to let his nightmares haunt him during the day when they already gave him so much trouble at night. Maybe if he pushed himself a bit harder, he'd be too tired to have nightmares for once.

Martin still had nightmares.

This time, Tim came for him. Fire extinguisher in hand, he kicked the door in, and yelled for Martin to follow. He wanted to, but his legs wouldn't move, and as Tim reached for his hand to pull him along, a wave of worms came crashing down. Martin tried to warn him, but his voice wouldn't work either, and he had to watch as Tim fell to the ground, almost hidden from how many worms covered him.

Martin woke up crying, still hearing Tim's screams in his ears.

He knew he wasn't going to go back to sleep after that. Instead, he decided to get a glass of water from the break room. Maybe walking around a bit would calm his nerves, and drinking more water was never a bad thing. So, he slipped on socks and made his was out of the sealed room. A few of the motion-activated lights came on and dimly lit the halls of the Institute as Martin made his way, only half paying attention to where he was going. The great thing about living at his work was that Martin could probably get around in the pitch dark accurately - when you make trips to the bathroom with barely any lights on at 3 am enough times, you stop needing to look.

Once he reached the break room and got his glass of water, Martin felt slightly more awake and slightly less horrible. Hearing the rushing of the faucet break the silence was oddly reassuring. The water was cool, and he hadn't realized just how dry his mouth had been. He scrubbed the residual tear tracks from his cheeks as he began to walk back to his sealed safety room, and tried not to think about this particular nightmare. It was the first time anyone else had been there, and Martin decided he preferred the ones where he died alone. The thought of losing Tim, Sasha, or Jon gave him a sickening feeling in his gut. He wasn't going to let that happen if he could help it. How many CO2 canisters could he stash around the Archives until Jon got mad? Maybe he could try and get Elias to switch the lawn sprinklers with CO2 instead of water, like the fire sprinklers inside the building.

"Martin?" Martin yelped, panic running through him as he spun around to look behind him. There in the hall stood Jon, dressed crisply as per usual, briefcase in hand, hair dark and curly as ever, and a confused look on his face. Martin felt relief wash over him. He wasn't about to be murdered by some creepy assassin, or a particularly angry ghost, and there were no worms in sight. Then he realized it was Jon, his boss, who was wearing a powder blue dress shirt, slacks, navy blue tie, and shiny black shoes, and Martin was in a tshirt, froggy print boxer briefs, and avocado socks. Jon also seemed to realize that Martin was in a tshirt, froggy print boxer briefs, and avocado socks, as he did a brief once over of him and then kept his eyes squarely on Martins upper half.

"Hi, Jon." He squeaked out, throat still raspy from crying. He coughed to clear it a bit. "Um, why are you here in the middle of the night?"

"It's five thirty in the morning."

Martin stared at his boss. "You- you're coming into work at _five thirty?_ " That was a new record for Jon. The earliest Martin had seen him in before was six, and the rest of the Institute didn't arrive until seven at the earliest. How early did Jon have to wake up to look so good? Did he sleep in his work clothes and then steam himself to get wrinkles out? Did he even sleep at all?

"Why are you awake?" Jon asked, neatly not responding to Martin's question.

"I, um." Martin stopped for a moment. He didn't quite want to tell his boss that he'd been crying over a nightmare, but it seemed to come out of his mouth regardless. "I had a nightmare. About Prentiss. And Tim, uh... died." He swallowed very hard, feeling his cheeks heat up. Well, that was a new level of embarrassing. Tim and Sasha would have a field day if they heard about this.

Jon looked a bit surprised that Martin had told him that, but in a moment the surprise was replaced by something else that Martin couldn't read. He really wished he hadn't said anything, but apparently he was so tired that he just... told his boss about his personal problems, like some sort of unprofessional idiot.

"Is that why you've been so tired lately?" Jon asked after a few moments of awkward silence. He still wasn't looking at Martin below the waist.

"Yes." Martin answered again. He really wanted to run away and put on clothes that were not his pyjamas and socks. His oddly specific fear of being seen by his boss in his sleepwear was, somehow, becoming reality. Martin wondered if this was another nightmare, but the chill of the air on his exposed skin was too real.

"... How often are you having nightmares, Martin?" Jon asked this one slowly, like he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to be asking or not.

"Um." Martin really wished this was a nightmare. "Every night?" Why was he telling Jon this? His boss looked... well, Martin's best guess was some sort of constipated, but he was always horrible at deciphering Jon's expressions.

After another uncomfortable moment of silence, Martin decided that he was, in fact, going to run away. "I'm going to go... back." He stammered, not looking at Jon, and walked away as fast as he could without outright running. Maybe he should start sleeping in his work clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love on the first chapter!! This one ended up a lot longer than intended, but that's how writing goes tbh
> 
> Also there is a very tiny, brief description of a panic attack in this chapter! If reading it will set one off for you, please do be wary. It's barely a few lines long, so i doubt it will, but better safe than sorry!

Martin stayed in his room until seven, not willing to look Jon in the eyes so soon after what may have been the most embarrassing moment in his life. Then he put on the nicest work clothes he had with him, tried to make his hair look decent, and left for his desk. He was just going to act like nothing had happened and keep things professional. It would be fine.

As soon as he got to his desk, Tim looked him over and confidently announced, "You look like death, Martin."

"Tim!" Sasha chastised. "Don't be rude!" She rolled her chair out of her corner to look at Martin. "You do look really tired, though. Are you all right?" Martin sat in his own chair with a heavy sigh.

"I'm fine, guys." He didn't want either of them to know that Jon had seen him in his pyjamas. He wouldn't ever hear the last of it. He _definitely_ didn't want to tell Tim that he'd cried over him dying in a nightmare.

"You sure about that, Martin?" Tim asked, more genuine concern in his voice this time.

"I just didn't sleep much." At that moment, Jon came out of his office, eyes only stopping on Martin for a brief second before moving to Sasha. Martin looked very hard at his computer screen as he typed his password in, feeling that strange twinge in his heart and the significantly stronger rush of embarrassment. He hoped he wasn't turning red, or that Tim and Sasha were too busy listening to Jon asking Sasha if she'd been successful in tracking something down for him. Martin needed a strong cup of tea. Maybe even coffee, with how tired he felt now. Multiple nights of little sleep was definitely starting to take a toll on him.

Most of the day passed uneventfully, and Martin's fear that Sasha and Tim would somehow manage to find out about his early morning encounter with Jon eventually calmed down. Tim only wiggled his eyebrows at him once, right after Jon went back into his office, and recieved a smack from Sasha for it. Martin just gave him the best withering glare he could muster before starting his work for the day. Given Tim's snort, he didn't think it worked well.

He made tea for himself, a nice strong green tea to try and wake himself up (instead of falling asleep at his desk at 3 pm), and stared at the cat mug in the cabinet as he did. He didn't think he had it in him to make Jon tea today. But if he was trying to pretend it hadn't happened, wouldn't not bringing Jon tea be weird? Maybe he should just make tea to get it over with. Or maybe he should wait until he felt less embarrassed instead of pushing himself out of his comfort zone? Would Jon even want to interact with Martin now, knowing that he wore froggy print underwear? He didn't think he'd be able to handle talking to Jon if he knew what kind of underwear he wore. Would Jon be uncomfortable around Martin now? Would bringing him tea be a violation of his privacy?

"Martin!" Sashas voice suddenly registered loudly in his ear, making him jump a little, and Martin had a feeling she'd been trying to get his attention for a while.

"Ah! Uh, yes?"

"You've been staring at that mug like it's just asked you to recite all of pi. Are you _sure_ you're okay?" Sasha looked worried.

"I mean, I can go about fifteen numbers into pi? 3.14159... 2..." Martin trailed off as he finally processed the rest of what Sasha had said through his exhaustion. "Oh. I'm fine, I really am! I just - didn't sleep much last night."

Sasha frowned at him for a moment longer, eyes piercing, before shrugging. "If you say so. But if you need anything, we're here for you." She gave him a gentle tap on the shoulder before going back to her desk, and Martin decided that Sasha deserved to get tea that day. He'd worry about the logistics of making Jon tea later. 

Long after Tim and Sasha had left for the day, Jon was still in his office, and Martin was beginning to worry he'd fallen asleep at his desk. He needed to go home if he wanted any sleep before waking up to come in at _five thirty in the_ _morning_ , the mad man that he was. So, Martin decided that he would make Jon tea after all, and tell him to go home while he was at it. He could get over his embarrassment and tea-making anxiety if it mean Jon went left work and got some rest.

Martin gently knocked on the door to Jon's office, as always, and pushed the door open. His boss wasn't asleep, thankfully, but his brow was so furrowed Martin worried he'd give himself a headache if it stayed like that for long. Whatever list was on his desk was apparently fighting a silent battle with Jon's eyebrows, and he wasn't sure who was winning.

"Jon, it's late. Shouldn't you be going home?" Martin asked, setting the tea on his desk without waiting for permission. Jon looked at the tea, then at Martin, slightly confused. Then he checked his watch to see that it was almost nine o'clock, and realization dawned on his face.

"I suppose I should." He started to put the files he had out neatly back together as Martin turned to go, then paused. "...Thank you, Martin." The heavy weight behind those words made him pause on his way back out the door. They sounded different than his usual thank yous, which were more of a polite requirement. This one had an intensity behind it that sent Martin's heart thudding. He looked back at Jon, one hand on the doorknob, and met his gaze.

"You're welcome, Jon." He replied softly. Something in Jon's eyes made Martin want to stay, though he had no clue why and no reason not to go. For a moment, that part of him almost won over, almost had him walking back to Jon's desk to do... Martin didn't know what. But then the moment passed, and he turned back around and walked out the door.

Martin was in the Archives, wading through a sea of dead worms. How had they gotten in? How were there so many? The fire sprinklers must have killed them all, but where was Prentiss? He tried to ignore how they felt crushed under his shoes. He hadn't seen anyone else at all, and there was a sick feeling in his gut.

Pushing the door to Jon's office open took a bit of effort, given the few inches of worms he had to shove it through. They made a horrible squishing sound as he did, and Martin decided not to look down at whatever pulp they might have been turned into.

A moment later, he wished he had. There was Jon, slumped over his desk, riddled with holes. Martin let out a sob, kicking the worms aside as fast as he could to reach him. Maybe it wasn't too late, maybe Martin could get him to a hospital, maybe he wouldn't lose him -

But his desperate hopes were dashed as soon as his hand touched Jon's cheek. He was cold, and Martin sank to his knees and began to sob. The worms on the ground began to wriggle and move and cover him, but he didn't care.

Martin woke up to the feeling of crawling on his skin and his chest tired from crying. He didn't move for a moment, too shocked to realize he was awake, and then he sat bolt upright and ran his hands over his arms. No worms. Jon was fine, it was just another nightmare, the Archives were worm-free, and Martin was still alive. He checked the time on his phone - 3:45 am. With a sigh, he got up, put on socks and a cardigan, and made his way to the break room again. Martin spent a minute looking very hard at Jon's desk, reassuring himself that there was no dead body.

He got himself glass of cold water and sat down at the break table, staring into his cup as though it would have answers for him. The cup said nothing. Martin frowned and took a long drink. He had no idea what to do about his nightmares, and they clearly weren't going away. At this rate, he was going to become the most useless employee at the Institute, with how close he was getting to falling asleep at his desk. If he wasn't falling asleep, he was losing focus, thinking about the layer of dust currently accumulating at his home, feeling weird about his boss, or wondering if the worms had returned and taken it over.

Martin finished his glass of water and set his head on the table. He didn't want to admit just how scared he was - this was his job, he wasn't supposed to let his personal problems get in the way, but his job _was_ his personal problem. He couldn't go anywhere to get away from it, and there was no therapist in the world that could possibly understand what was happening enough to help. How was he even supposed to explain his situation? _"Hello, I'm Martin Blackwood, and a crazy worm-filled corpse woman is trying to kill me with her massive worm army, how do you do?"_

He chuckled to himself at the idea. That would certainly get him a diagnosis, but nothing that would actually help. He wondered how Tim managed to be so chipper all the time. Maybe he had some good coping mechanisms Martin could borrow. Or maybe Tim being chipper all the time _was_ his coping mechanism...

Suddenly, he heard something shifting behind him and froze. _No._ A quiet sound of soft, tiny bodies hitting the floor, plopping down one after the other. The room went freezing cold, like the air conditioner had just come on full blast. _Not possible_. The feeling of something small beginning to wriggle up his ankle, and then another, and another. Martin was still frozen in place, but now it wasn't just from fear. He couldn't move, couldn't look to see what he knew was standing behind him.

 _"Hello, Martin."_ The bone-chilling voice of Jane Prentiss whispered in his ear. Martin could feel her leaning over him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He had to be dreaming, this couldn't be real, Jane Prentiss couldn't be inside the Institute. Even telling himself that, the feeling of a writhing, clammy hand on his shoulder sent panic through his body. He tried to move, tried to shake her off, but -

"Martin!!" A voice, very loud and very real, startled him into sitting up so fast he fell out of his chair. The room felt warmer, and Martin could move again, could scuttle backwards in a panic, could open his eyes. As he did so, he saw his chair, turned over on its side, and Jon, standing before him and looking deeply concerned. Martin checked behind himself, and there was no Jane Prentiss. He suddenly became very aware that he was hyperventilating, hands and legs shaking, and he couldn't seem to make it stop. He started to feel dizzy, and that only made him panic more.

"Martin, breathe." Jon moved the chair aside and knelt on the floor next to him. "Come on now, breathe in with me. In..." Jon set a hand on his back, warm and grounding, and inhaled deeply. Martin tried to do the same, his lungs only half obeying. "And breathe out... and back in. You're okay, I'm right here. And exhale."

Jon kept guiding Martin through breathing, his voice calm and reassuring, hand steady on his back. He didn't seem phased at all, simply kept telling Martin how to breathe and reminding him that he was safe, and that he wasn't alone. After a minute or two, he was fully in sync with his boss, and his limbs were significantly less shaky. Martin felt awake and less panicked enough to notice that Jon was wearing a light yellow shirt and a white tie with daisies on it. He thought it was a very pretty combination.

"I, um." Martin's throat was dry. How long had he been asleep? "I think I'm okay now." He didn't want to look beyond Jon's tie to meet his gaze. "Thank you." The last part came out much quieter than intended, but Martin didn't have it in himself to try again. He was completely exhausted, to the point that he couldn't even be embarrassed at being in his sleepwear in front of his boss _again._ At least he had a cardigan on this time.

"Of course." Jon nodded. Then he got up, grabbing the empty water glass and refilling it at the sink. Martin watched as he did, entirely unsure as to how to continue whatever interaction they were having. His boss had just talked him through what Martin could only assume was some sort of panic attack, and now he was handing him a glass of water and sitting on the floor next to him. His lungs hurt.

Martin took the glass wordlessly, taking a long drink. Jon looked him over, seemingly less phased at his socks and underwear than yesterday. The silence between them wasn't quite _un_ comfortable, but it definitely wasn't comfortable, and the idea of breaking it was a bit too much for Martin.

"You had another nightmare." Jon said, taking that task on himself. It wasn't a question. Nobody had a panic attack after a nice dream. Martin drew his knees up to his chest, setting the water glass on the floor, and rested his chin atop them. He was still shaking a bit, and his limbs felt heavy, like someone had tied weights to them.

"I... Yeah." Martin looked down at his sailboat patterned socks as he spoke. "I woke up around 3:45, and then I came out here to get water, and I - I guess I fell back asleep on the table." He could feel Jon's gaze on him, and looked at his socks harder. Some of the sailboats had different coloured sails on them.

"That is... not good." Jon stated. Martin snorted.

"That's one way to put it, yeah." He sat up a bit to take another drink from the water glass, willing his hand to be steady. "What time is it?"

Jon checked his watch. "Five forty-two."

"Why - _why_ are you here so early?" Martin finally looked Jon in the face, about to berate him for working too hard, and was immediately taken aback by just how dark his eyes were. It wasn't often that he was this close to him, and he didn't spend much time staring at Jon's eyes regardless. They were a beautiful, deep shade of brown that almost blended into his pupils, and Martin thought he might stare at them forever if given the chance.

"We should get you back to bed. Even if you don't sleep, laying down is still good rest for your body." Jon stood up quickly and reached a hand down to help Martin up. He took it, surprised by how strong of a grip Jon had. "If you need to take today off work, that's fine by me."

"What else am I going to do? I can't exactly take a day trip or go to a nice cafe." Jon paused for a moment, and Martin had a second to think about how soft his hand was before Jon nodded and pulled it away.

"Right. Well." His boss nodded again, as though unsure what else to say, and began to walk out of the breakroom. Martin watched him go for a moment, still feeling the warmth on his hand, before following.


	3. Chapter 3

The following day (or just the rest of the day? Martin wasn't sure) felt... odd. Jon wasn't acting any different than normal. He gave Martin a nod when he left his office to follow up with Sasha again, which led to Tim giving him a look that he couldn't even try and understand. Otherwise, there was no sign that Jon was at all changed after that morning. Martin wasn't sure what he had expected - maybe him being annoyed, or a look of pity, but nothing at all certainly wasn't it.

Regardless, he was still exhausted, though he'd come full circle and had reached the point where he was so out of willpower that nothing was phasing him. Martin plowed through a solid chunk of emails, neatly filed away a case that simply had no more leads, and even made a follow-up call on total auto-pilot. He managed not to start panicking upon seeing a silver pen cap on the ground, and he only jumped a little when Sasha gave him a pat on the shoulder as she passed by.

Martin survived until lunch on that special kind of unshakeable tired. Then he decided to make tea, as per usual, and turned on the hot plate. He needed to grab the kettle from the tiny drying rack by the sink, as he'd washed it the evening before. He did so, though he noticed it had a few tiny droplets of water on the outside, and he'd rather not listen to them sizzling away as the hot plate boiled them into steam. He set the kettle down on the counter and grabbed a paper towel, wiping it dry. Then Martin realized he'd forgotten to actually grab the new box of tea from the cupboard - he'd used the last packet yesterday. Looking into the cupboard revealed the box had been shoved to the back of the shelf, and he was slightly too short to reach without going on his tiptoes. Frowning, he shifted his weight forward, trying to stretch his right hand as far back into the cabinet as he could, and set his left down for support - 

Directly on the hot plate.

The burning didn't even register for a moment, but as soon as it did Martin fell on to his knees with a scream of pain. He tried to look and see what damage was done, but his eyes were watering too much, and he couldn't focus around the searing heat on his palm. Wasn't he supposed to do something about this? Ice it? No, ice was bad, right? Water was for burns. Warm water from the tap.

Martin scrambled to his feet as soon as he realized he could move the rest of his body, pain and panic surging through him. He reached the faucet in record time, shoving his hand under the lukewarm water that came out. The slight relief it brought him sent a few actual tears down his cheeks, which he quickly scrubbed away with his good hand. He forced his lungs to slow down, to not hyperventilate and send him into yet another panic attack. He was fine, he'd just burnt his hand, no big deal, no worms, no monsters around.

"What happened?!" Sasha and Tim had come running into the room, presumably having heard the shriek of pain. "Martin, are you okay?" The urgency in Sasha's voice immediately sent another wave of panic through him, and he just shook his head, unable to respond.

Sasha reached him first, took one look at his angry red palm, and hissed. "Oh, that doesn't look good." It was a vivid red, with a few layers of skin clearly burned away. There wasn't any white charring, thankfully as the hot plate hadn't fully heated up yet.

"The - the hot plate, I-" Martin clenched his teeth and shut his eyes for a moment as the throbbing got worse and he choked down his fear. He was _not_ going to cry in front of his coworkers, he was _not_ going to break down in front if them. He was _fine._

"Oh, god, Martin, how'd you even manage that?" Tim asked, beginning to rummage through one of the lower cabinets after a quick look at his palm. Martin felt his panic ever so slowly draining away as he forced his breathing to be even, the horrific knot of anxiety in his stomach unravelling bit by bit.

"I- I couldn't reach the tea." Tim barely held back a snort as he fished out the first aid kit, and Martin ignored it to take a few more deep breaths before another wave of pain hit. Sasha took a very gentle hold of his hand, turning it to get a better look and drawing it out from under the tap. It immediately started to throb even worse at being removed from the water, and Martin nearly started crying again. His outer palm was a shade of red that didn't look remotely healty. The very center had been spared for the most part, as it hadn't fully touched the hot plate, and his fingertips were just a touch red. He shoved his hand back under the running faucet as soon as Sasha let go, sighing with relief.

"Well, you're probably going to need bandages for a while, but it doesn't look like you'll need a hospital visit. Is there any burn cream in there, Tim?"

"Yeah, I got it." He answered. Martin allowed Sasha to turn off the tap water and sit him down in a chair. He stuck his hand out and set his forehead on the table, trying not think about Jane Prentiss coming up from behind him in that same chair. Or cry. It was a bit of a battle, with the agony his hand was experiencing, his sleep deprivation, and his frustration at himself. He couldn't believe he'd been stupid enough to _put his hand on a hot plate_. He should've known better. Or he should've just grabbed a chair to stand on instead of trying to fight to be tall enough.

"Is everything alright? I heard - oh." Martin didn't raise his head when Jon entered the room, but he did feel his heart stutter and his ears heat up. Lord, this was _not_ what he needed right now. How many different ways could he embarrass himself in front of his boss in one day?

"Martin burned his hand on the hot plate." Tim said cheerily as he started applying the burn cream. The tip of the tube bumpred against Martin's hand, sending a wave of pain through him. He yelped and pulled back, his head jerking off the table in surprise.

"I... see." Jon said, sounding like he didn't see at all. Martin glanced up at him, taking in his blue and white chunky striped shirt, woolen grey tie, and deep burgundy slacks. They locked eyes, and suddenly the pain in his hand didn't seem quite so bad, fading into the background. Jon looked genuinely concerned, and Martin's heart thudded faster in his chest. Despite that, a small part of him felt... calmer, almost, like it remembered how safe Jon had made him feel that morning.

Tim promptly bumped the tube again, and the pain and anxiety were definitely back.

"Do you have to try and make it _worse?_ " He asked, looking down at his hand. Tim was doing a terrible job of spreading the cream evenly, and Martin's hand stung where the tube had passed over.

"Sorry, sorry." Tim apologized. He had a look in his eyes that Martin almost thought was mischievous, but he had no clue why. "Do you want someone else to do it?

"Its fine, I - I can do it myself." He didn't like the feeling of being fussed over very much, and he'd much rather risk fumbling the bandages a bit than potentially crying in front of three people. This day was far too long, Martin was far too tired, and Tim's smile was far too suspicious.

"Are you sure?" Sasha asked, and Martin waved her off.

"I'll be fine, you guys have work to get back to." Tim and Sasha exchanged looks, apparently reaching some telepathic agreement, and got up to leave. Jon looked confused, still standing in the doorway, as they walked around him to get back to their desks.

Martin busied himself with carefully squeezing out burn cream evenly over the rest of his hand, expecting Jon to turn and go back to his office. Instead, after a moment of silence, he walked past Martin, and turned off the hot plate with a click. It made him jump in his seat, startling him into dropping the tube.

"Are you really okay, Martin?" He asked. Martin shakily screwed the cap back on to the fallen burn cream.

"No." He answered bluntly, struggling to get the paper of the gauze packet to rip open. Jon pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, gently taking the packet and tearing it open. Martin stared wordlessly as his boss took ahold of his wrist, and set the gauze pad on his palm. The odd sense of calm began to settle over him again. His hands weren't quite shaking any more, and the last of the anxiety in his stomach unraveled itself.

"... Do you - do you want to... talk?" Jon sounded very awkward as he worked on bandaging Martin's hand. His touch was incredibly careful, like he thought he might break Martin if he pushed too hard.

"I - I, um. Don't know? It's- it's been a really long day." He stammered, genuinely unsure of himself in that moment. His burn was beginning to calm down a bit, with only occasional throbs of agony, and Martin felt a fresh wave of exhaustion come over him. God, he was tired. Tears began to well their way up, and he swallowed very hard to force them back. Maybe if he focused hard enough on Jon's tie he wouldn't cry. It was very grey and very woolen.

"Of course." Jon nodded, finishing up with Martin's bandages. He took his hands away, and Martin wished he'd held on just a moment longer. "I'm... here if you need me." Jon stated, and then scooted his chair out and left the room. Martin stared confusedly at his hand. Jon's touch had been warm, but a gentle kind of warm, not the scorching heat radiating from the burnt palm. He'd been so delicate, so careful, whilst patching Martin up. It almost felt unreal, but the bandages certainly hadn't magicked themselves on. They were actually rather neatly wrapped up, secure without being too tight or uncomfortable.

The way Jon had looked, the concern on his face... It felt like there was some farther emotion behind it that was just out of Martin's reach. He just couldn't seem to get a handle on Jon lately - the prickly and distant man who found Martin's work lacking was gone. Had been gone, actually, ever since he came back from Prentiss' attack. The new Jon didn't make comments on his tapes, didn't ever look at Martin like he was irritating, didn't ever look annoyed at his tea.

It was all a bit too much for Martin. A few tears made their way out before he could stop them. Instead of thinking about it more, Martin repacked the first aid kit as best he could with one hand, wiped his tears away, tossed the trash in the bin, and went back to his desk. He was determined to just sit and get work done and not think about anything at all.

Tim gave him the most over exaggerated wink possible as he passed by, paired with a wolf whistle. Martin didn't grace it with a response.

The end of the day came, and Martin felt like he would either pass out from exhaustion or never sleep again. With how his nightmares were, he knew he'd choose the latter, but he wasn't sure he really had a choice. His hand was now at a gentle throb on occasion, and definitely not easy to type with, but overall greatly improved. Hopefully it wouldn't need the bandages for more than another day, maybe two at the longest. Honestly, Martin didn't think it was quite bad enough to have required bandages in the first place, but better safe than sorry.

Martin had noticed Jon was working late again. It was eight thirty, and Martin had a feeling if he didn't intervene he might not go home at all. So, he _very_ slowly and carefully prepared a cup of tea (with extreme caution towards the hot plate), knocked on the door with his foot, and stepped into his office after a brief struggle with the handle.

"Jon, it's late. You - uh." He stopped short of telling him to go home upon seeing that his desk didn't have any files on it. Instead, Jon was staring at a small box. It didn't look like anything cursed, although Martin knew better than to judge a book by its cover. If anything, books with less suspicious covers tended to be the ones that killed people.

"Ah, Martin!" Jon stood up, startled. "I, er, was just about to look for you." He cleared his throat, and motioned at the item on the table. It was a dark purple with white text, and there was a small crescent moon and stars in one corner. Looking closer, Martin read the label on the box: Nighttime Sleep Aid. It took him a long moment to connect the (very few) dots, and once he did he wasn't quite sure he'd done it right.

"Jon, did - did you-" Martin felt his heart do a tiny jig. "Did you get me sleep aids?" Jon nodded, looking at the tea in Martin's hand rather than at his face.

"I can't have you down for the count from sleep deprivation." He said awkwardly. "I couldn't get ahold of anything stronger without a prescription, but these might help." Martin wasn't sure he'd ever seen Jon look this uncomfortable with himself, but he was a bit too busy with the fact that his boss had _bought him sleeping medicine_. His face felt hot, and he realized he needed to set the tea down before his shaking hands spilled it and further burnt his palm.

"I- th-thank you, Jon." Martin managed to say, glance flickering up for a moment to see Jon looking back at him, then looked back down at the desk. Meeting his gaze was just too much right now, too overwhelming. Instead, Martin picked up the box after the tea mug was safely on the table. It looked entirely unremarkable, but it meant the world to him in that moment. Jon - Jon had been concerned enough about Martin's nightmares to go out and buy sleeping medicine for him. He had apparently looked into getting something stronger, too - had he tried to get ahold of actual insomnia medication? Jon had talked Martin through a panic attack with no judgment that morning, bandaged his hand so gently, and now... why? Why this? Was Jon that worried about his work performance? This was a bit much for that.

Martin swallowed very hard. The only conclusion he could reach was that Jon cared about him, more than just as a boss/employee dynamic, and that was making his heart pound and his stomach twist into knots. This was a realization that had far too much weight behind it, and Martin thought he might break.

"Uh - how - um," He couldn't get his words to come out right. "How much do I owe you?" His hands were shaking.

"Oh - no, it's fine, you don't - you don't owe me anything." Jon answered. "Just... try and get a good night's sleep." When Martin finally had the will to look back up, Jon's expression was unreadable as usual, but there was something very soft about it, and it wasn't an expression that had ever been directed at him before. It made Martin's cheeks heat up, and he decided that he needed to run away before he made a fool of himself.

"Right, well, I'll - I'll go try and... do that." He stammered, holding onto the small box for dear life. "Thank you, Jon. I," he swallowed very hard. "I mean it."

Now Jon looked like he wanted to run away, and Martin thought he'd gotten too emotional, but the "You're welcome, Martin." he recieved had more of that softness behind it. His heart pounded so hard in his chest that Martin was almost worried he was having a heart attack, but he somehow knew that wasn't the case. So, he made a very un-graceful exit, nearly running into the doorframe, and practically sprinted for document storage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this from my personal experience! I set my hand flat on a hot iron when I was little because I wanted to see what it felt like. The answer is Very Bad, do not reccomend.


End file.
